Sleeping Alone
by thequeenwillruletheboard
Summary: Panicking fingers reach first for the telephone before he remembers that he cannot dial a rotary in the dark, and even if he could, he shouldn't bother the Lieutenant for the third night in a row. She deserves to rest, too. Instead, he reaches for the lamp and switches it on. It's much harder to hallucinate with the lights on.
**AN:** This was inspired by fanart on tumblr (I posted a credit link to the artwork where this is published on tumblr itself) and it's dedicated to the-flame-and-hawks-eye who is a beautiful Royai writer and inspired me to start writing them in the first place.

* * *

Roy shuffles into his apartment, tossing his keys onto the table and his jacket over the back of a chair, locking the front door behind him. His uniform bears down heavily on his shoulders, and it's a great relief to him as he strips it off layer by thick layer.

It's too late in the night to bother hanging it up to keep it pressed, and he knows he'll be scolded by the Lieutenant tomorrow when he shows up disheveled and unkempt, but at this point he's just looking forward to tomorrow when he sees her, regardless of what she says to him.

He proceeds habitually through his nightly routine: shower off the municipal grime, brush his teeth and hair, don his pajamas, and slip into bed. Of course, as tired as he had been through the process, lying down in the dark he can't imagine being any more alert.

Sighing, he rolls over to try and find a comfortable position, squeezing his eyes shut. He tucks his arm beneath the pillow under his head, temporarily settling into a place of rest. Relief floods his nerves as his mind and body start to float away, only to tense again as he hears the faint sound of automatic gunfire resonating through the darkness and the subsequent screams tearing through his eardrums. The vision behind his eyelids flashes white then red, the heat of flame washing onto his face over the already-present heat from the desert; when the light clears he looks around and the corpses outnumber the survivors ten to one and the air is thick with blood, he can see it soaking into the ground where moisture is otherwise absent––

He jolts upright, his breathing unstable and frantic, and adjusting from the sunlight in his vision to the darkness of his bedroom, he swears he can see the shapes of the ghosts in the shadows crying and staring and bleeding for the _Renowned Hero of Ishval_. Panicking fingers reach first for the telephone before he remembers that he cannot dial a rotary in the dark, and even if he could, he shouldn't bother the Lieutenant for the third night in a row. She deserves to rest, too.

Instead, he reaches for the lamp and switches it on. It's much harder to hallucinate with the lights on, and he leans back onto his headboard, still breathing irregularly. The only good thing that had come out of those damn veteran therapy seminars is that he learned to regulate his breathing when this happened, or at least that he'd heard her relay it to him so many times he learned by experience. Conscious of the residual tension in his shoulders and abdomen, he fills his lungs with oxygen and holds it for a three-count, releasing it along with his clenched muscles.

He repeats this until he feels comfortable lying back down, staring at the ceiling. He's afraid to try to sleep again, and he knows that if he were with her, he'd be sleeping comfortably already. The aching in his chest almost convinces him to dial her number, to walk to her apartment, to do anything to feel closer to her, but he knows they cannot afford it. Instead, he resigns to turning onto his side, resting his head on one pillow, and pulling the other – _the one he's always put aside for her –_ tightly into his chest.

This time, he consciously carves the path of the early-stage dream: a light breeze cools them in the late spring heat, warm grass beneath the checkered blanket they're sprawled out on. They've already eaten the food from the picnic basket, and they hold each other in silence. It's ten years ago. There's no Berthold and no tattoo, no war, no scar. Her eyes glisten as though he'd never dulled them; he smiles and kisses the junction of her mandible, nestling back into the crook of her shoulder. Her arms are firm and comforting, and they both know that the world will be alright for them.

 _I love you_ , he murmurs, grinning like an idiot who won the world.

In this world, he never has to pay for winning.

 _I love you too,_ she laughs. _Even if you are a useless idiot._

In this world, he never has to repent for the effect he's had on her.

And so, he falls asleep, the pillow clutched to his chest, convincing himself he's sleeping to the sound of her heartbeat.


End file.
